Caught My Wife Cheating with Our Landlord When I Took a Sick Day Off, But She Begged for...

Caught my wife cheating with our landlord when I took a sick day off, but she begged for forgiveness, so I pretended to consider it, then deleted her novel she spent three years writing. I browse this subreddit practically every day, and I used to be that guy in the comments defending women whenever someone would post about getting cheated on. You know the type: "Not all women are like that; you just need to find the right one," all that BS.

I really believed it too. Why wouldn't I? I've been married to my wife for six years, and she's been nothing but honest with me the whole time.

At least, that's what I thought. I never caught her in a lie and never had any reason to think she was being shady. She was even the one who'd tell me about her guy friends hitting on her or her co-workers being inappropriate.

She'd show me the messages and everything, saying how gross it was. Hell, she even cut off contact with her male best friend when I mentioned being uncomfortable about how close they were getting. That's the kind of woman I thought I had—honest, loyal, putting our relationship first.

God, typing this out now makes me feel like such an idiot. Everyone who's been cheated on probably has a similar story about how perfect everything seemed. Well, here's the truth I've learned the hard way: you can't trust anyone—not your family, not your friends, and definitely not the person sleeping next to you every night.

I'm 33, my wife Jenna is 31, and up until recently, I really thought we had one of the good marriages. You know how it goes; everyone has their fights and rough patches, but compared to my friends' marriages, we were solid. Never went to bed angry, always made time for date nights even when money was tight, supported each other's dreams and ambitions.

Jenna was even helping me study for some certifications to boost my career. Meanwhile, I was her biggest cheerleader with her writing. That's what makes all of this so much worse.

The living situation is pretty standard for people our age in this economy. We rent because mortgages are insane right now. Our place is in this big house that's been converted into four separate apartments.

The landlord lives in one of them; he's this older guy, probably in his 50s. The other two units have regular tenants—young families like us just trying to get by. The landlord seemed decent enough when we moved in four years ago.

He'd fix things when they broke, kept the building maintained, that sort of thing. Sometimes we'd butt heads over stupid stuff like parking spots or noise complaints, but nothing major. We kept things professional—maybe send him some food during the holidays or if Jenna was baking—but that was it.

I actually liked that about the setup: everyone had their own space, no forced friendliness, just normal neighbor stuff. Turns out, I should have been paying more attention to what was happening when I wasn't around. Something you need to understand about our schedules: Jenna works as a copywriter, so she's home pretty much 24/7.

Her company only needs her in the office once or twice a month for team meetings or client presentations. Meanwhile, I'm busting my ass working six days a week at my job—not because I want to, trust me; I'd rather be home with my wife, but because that's what the job demands. I'm in construction management, and when you're overseeing multiple projects, you can't just clock out at 5 and forget about everything.

I'd leave at 7:00 a. m. and usually wouldn't get back until 7:00 or 8:00 p.

m. ; even on Sundays, I'd sometimes get called in if there was an emergency at one of the sites. Jenna always said she understood that.

She was proud of how hard I worked for us. She'd make me dinner when I got home late, run me baths when my back was killing me from being on my feet all day. I actually felt guilty sometimes about leaving her alone so much.

I remember the exact day everything fell apart. I woke up feeling like absolute garbage—stuffy nose, headache. I usually push through being sick; bills don't pay themselves, and I've worked through worse.

But that morning, something just felt off. Maybe it was my gut trying to tell me something; I don't know. I texted my boss that I needed to take a personal day off.

He was cool about it. I'd actually built up like three weeks of unused sick days because I never take time off. I thought I'd surprise Jenna by acting to go to work and then surprise her when I came back.

Maybe we could order lunch and watch some Netflix together. We hadn't had a whole day to ourselves in months! I even went to that fancy coffee place she likes on the way home, got her favorite iced caramel whatever with extra whipped cream.

I was actually excited, like a kid surprising their parents or something. I kept thinking about how happy she'd be to have me home—how maybe we could finally have that lazy day together she's always asking for. Sitting in that drive-thru, smiling like an idiot while ordering her coffee, I wish I could go back and tell myself to just go to work.

Sometimes, ignorance really is bliss. I pulled into our usual parking spot, balancing that stupid coffee I bought her in one hand. Everything looked normal at first; her car was there, the neighbor's kids were playing in the yard—just a regular Tuesday morning.

But when I got to our door, something wasn't right: the door was cracked open just slightly. Now, Jenna is crazy about home security; she triple-checks the locks every night and has cameras set up at all our windows. She even made me.

. . "install a video doorbell last year because she was worried about package thieves.

So seeing the door open like that—red flag number one—but I tried to rationalize it. Maybe she was bringing in groceries or getting the mail; maybe she stepped out for a second to talk to the neighbors. I had no reason to think anything was wrong.

We're in a safe neighborhood; she's a grown woman who can handle herself. Still, something in my gut told me this wasn't normal. The door is never open when she's home alone.

What I saw when I walked in. . .

man, I don't even know how to write this without getting angry all over again. Right there in our living room, on the couch where we watch movies together every weekend, where we had Christmas dinner with her parents last year, my wife was bent over, wearing nothing but one of my T-shirts, and behind her, our 50-some-year-old landlord—the same guy who just fixed our bathroom sink last week—his pants were around his ankles, and he was. .

. I just stood there. The coffee slipped out of my hand and spilled all over our entryway rug.

The sound of the cup hitting the floor is what made them notice me. I managed to say, 'What the hell is going on here? '—like an idiot, as if I needed clarification.

Like there was any possible explanation that could make this okay; that my wife being bent over our couch by a man old enough to be her father could be anything other than what it obviously was. I knew exactly what was going on, but my brain just couldn't process it. Six years of marriage, all those nights I worked late to give us a better life, all those times she told me she loved me and only me.

. . it all meant nothing.

And I had to stand there and watch it all crumble in real time. The moment they heard my voice, everything erupted into chaos. Jenna let out this high-pitched squeal like she was the victim here, scrambling to cover herself with my T-shirt—my T-shirt!

The landlord, this supposedly respectable older man who'd sat at our dinner table and discussed property improvements with me, was desperately trying to pull his pants up while shuffling towards the door. His face was bright red, but not from shame, probably just worried about his reputation in the building if this got out. My fists were clenched so tight my knuckles were white.

Every muscle in my body was screaming at me to knock him out right there. I'm not a violent person, but in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to throw the hardest punch of my life. I wanted to make him hurt like he'd hurt me.

I've been going to the gym five days a week for the past three years; I could have done some serious damage. But something in the back of my mind kept replaying all those news stories about one-punch deaths, especially with older people—headlines about guys serving manslaughter charges because of one moment of rage. I'm not trying to catch a case over these two pieces of trash, no matter how much they deserve it.

The landlord practically ran past me, bumping into the wall in his hurry to get out—a coward who couldn't even look me in the eye. I let him go. What's that saying about revenge being a dish best served cold?

I made a mental note to deal with him later. There would be time for that—maybe a call to his wife or perhaps a nice chat with the other tenants about what kind of man their landlord really is. That left me alone with Jenna, if I can even call her by her name anymore.

The woman standing in front of me wasn't the same person I married six years ago. That Jenna would never do this to me. That Jenna loved me, respected me, valued our marriage.

This stranger in front of me was just a cheater who got caught. I've never wanted to hit a woman in my life; my dad raised me better than that. He always said a man who hits a woman is no man at all.

But standing there watching her try to act like the scared innocent wife, I had to keep reminding myself of my father's words. I had to keep my hands balled into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms until I felt blood. Because if I let go, if I let that rage take over for even a second, I knew I would do something I could never take back.

I've been in fights before; I've been angry before. But this. .

. this was different. This was pure, uncontrollable fury mixed with the kind of pain that makes you want to burn everything to the ground.

The type of rage that makes good men do terrible things, and that's exactly why I couldn't let it control me. There she was, clutching my T-shirt to her body like she suddenly cared about modesty. The same woman who had just been bent over our couch with another man was now trying to act shy and vulnerable.

The sheer audacity of it made my blood boil even more. She was playing the victim, trying to make me feel like the bad guy for walking into my own home and catching her cheating. That's what pissed me off the most—not just the cheating, but this pathetic act she was putting on now.

'So this is what happens when I'm not at home, huh? ' I barely recognized my own voice. It came out low and cold, nothing like how I usually talk to her.

She started this stuttering explanation, tripping over her words like a kid caught stealing cookies. 'I. .

. it's not. .

. this is. .

. it was just. .

. just what? Just a.

. . " Mistake.

Just a one-time thing. Just destroying our entire marriage for a quickie with a man old enough to be her father. She couldn't even get a full sentence out; just stood there trembling like a leaf.

I won't lie—seeing her scared and struggling to explain herself gave me this twisted sense of satisfaction. After what she just did to me, watching her squirm felt like the tiniest bit of justice. I've never been aggressive with Jenna before, never even raised my voice at her in six years of marriage.

I walked up to her; she actually took a step back, like she was afraid of me—me, the same guy who held her hair back when she was sick, who drove three hours to get her favorite cake for her birthday, who worked overtime for months to buy her that laptop she wanted for her writing. I grabbed the collar of my own T-shirt that she was wearing and pulled her closer. She was looking everywhere but at me: at the floor, at the walls, at the door where her lover had just run out like a coward.

That made it even worse. She couldn't even give me the basic respect of looking me in the eye after what she'd done, after destroying everything we built together. She couldn't even face me.

I yanked the collar harder, trying to force her to look up, to look at me. Each time I tried to catch her eye, she turned away like I was the one who had done something wrong. I pushed her away from me, maybe harder than I meant to, but at that point, I just needed her away from me.

She fell to the ground, still clutching that stupid T-shirt. She sat there on our living room floor; now it was just another place she had tainted with her betrayal. I stood there watching her cry, and for the first time since we met, I felt absolutely nothing for her—no love, no sympathy, not even pity—just disgust and rage.

I turned and walked straight for the door. As I was leaving, I heard her cry out, "Babe! " in this weak, pathetic voice, the same voice she used to use when she wanted me to stay home from work or when she was trying to convince me to take her on vacation.

That voice used to melt my heart; now it just made me want to vomit. The fact that she had the nerve to call me that after what I just saw. .

. I slammed the door so hard, the window rattled. I needed to put as much distance between us as possible before I lost what little control I had left.

I got in my car and just started driving—no destination, no plan—just driving to keep moving. I must have circled our neighborhood fifty times. Every time I passed our apartment building, I had to grip the steering wheel tighter to stop myself from turning in.

The sick part is I knew exactly where to find both of them: the landlord was probably hiding in his unit downstairs, with my wife where I left her. But I'm not that guy, so I kept driving, trying to drown out the thoughts in my head with random radio stations. None of it helped.

I ended up parking at Walmart around 2:00 p. m. and just sat there in my car, staring at nothing, watching people go about their normal lives like the world hadn't just ended: families shopping together, couples holding hands, elderly people helping each other with groceries—all these normal people living their normal lives while my entire world was burning down.

I sat there for hours, my phone blowing up with messages from Jenna that I couldn't bring myself to read. The sun went down, the parking lot emptied out, and still I sat there. I couldn't go home; it wasn't home anymore—just a crime scene where my marriage had been murdered.

I watched the security guard do his rounds, probably wondering why some guy was sitting in his car for hours in a Walmart parking lot. I must have looked suspicious as hell, but I couldn't bring myself to care. I finally drove home around 10:00 p.

m. , half hoping she wouldn't be there. But no, there she was, sitting on our couch—the same damn couch where I caught her with him just hours ago.

She had changed into her favorite pajamas, the ones I bought her last Christmas, and her face was all puffy and red, like she'd been crying for hours. Her makeup was smeared everywhere, tissues scattered all around her. The whole scene looked like something out of those dramatic movies she loves so much—just another performance by Jenna, the woman who apparently deserved an Oscar for fooling me for six years.

Her crying didn't affect me one bit. Why should it? She wasn't crying because she felt bad about betraying me; she wasn't crying because she regretted throwing away six years of marriage.

No, she was crying because she got caught, because her comfortable life of playing happy wife while screwing the landlord when I was at work was finally over. Those weren't tears of regret; they were tears of inconvenience. "Please, baby, I want to talk to you.

Please sit down," she practically whispered, her voice all raspy from crying. The "baby" part really got to me. "Did you [ __ ] him again after I left?

" I asked her point-blank. Her face crumpled, and she started sobbing even harder. I actually laughed; I couldn't help it.

The whole thing was just so absurd. Here she was, trying to act all sorry and devastated when, for all I knew, she'd spent the afternoon consoling herself in the landlord's bed. "Please just sit down with me!

I'm begging you," she kept pleading, like she deserved even one more minute of my time. But you know what's. .

. Really messed up. I sat down, not on the couch—I'll never sit on that thing again—but in the armchair across from her.

Maybe I wanted to hear what kind of excuses she could possibly come up with. She just sat there, staring at me. Finally, she started with the typical cheater script: "I'm so sorry.

" Sorry she got caught. It was a stupid mistake that she'd probably been making for months. "I was just feeling lonely while I was working to support us.

" Then came the kicker: she actually tried to blame it on being horny and him making suggestive comments, like she had no control over her actions—like she just accidentally fell onto his dick. Next thing I knew, she said, trailing off into more tears, "Next thing I knew. .

. " What? She just happened to take her clothes off?

Just happened to bend over our couch? Just happened to let a man old enough to be her father have his way with her in our living room? The Jenna I married would never do this.

The Jenna I loved would never betray me like this. This woman—this was just someone wearing my wife's face, living in my house, spending my money, and apparently screwing our landlord for who knows how long. And now she was putting on the performance of her life, trying to cry her way out of consequences through her tears.

Jenna swore up and down that this was the first and only time anything had happened between them. She even put her hand on her heart—a gesture she used to do when making serious promises to me—and said she'd never do it again. The crazy part?

She actually sounded convincing. Six years of marriage, and I'd never caught her in a lie before today, so maybe she was telling the truth about it being a one-time thing. But you know what?

It doesn't matter—not even a little bit. Here’s the thing about cheating that all cheaters conveniently forget: it's not just one bad decision; it's hundreds of tiny decisions, one after another. Each one a conscious choice to betray your partner.

She chose to flirt back when he made those suggestive comments. She chose to let him into our apartment while I was at work. Every single step of the way, she could have stopped it, could have said no, could have thought about her husband of six years who was working his ass off to give her a good life.

But she didn't. She chose her own pleasure over our marriage. The more I sat there, listening to her sob and beg, the more I realized something: even if I wanted to forgive her, even if I was stupid enough to try, I’d never be able to look at her the same way again.

The trust was gone, shattered like a mirror, and no amount of superglue could put it back together without showing the cracks. And then there was the landlord situation. He lived right downstairs.

I'd have to see his face every day, knowing what he did with my wife. I'd have to resist the urge to cave his skull in every time I passed him in the hallway. I cut her off mid-apology.

"Stop," I said. "Just stop. We're done.

" She tried to argue, tried to tell me we could fix this, that we could go to counseling, that she'd do anything to make it right. But there was nothing to fix. You can't unfuck someone.

It was over the moment she let him touch her. I wanted to throw her out right then and there, let her go live with her new man, see how she likes being with someone older than her dad. But I knew I couldn't stay in this building—not with him here.

After that conversation, I just couldn't stand to be in the same room with her anymore. I went to our bedroom, grabbed my suitcase from the closet, and started throwing clothes in it. I didn't even bother folding them; just grabbed whatever I could see, stuffing six years of life into two bags like some kind of refugee fleeing a war zone—which, in a way, I guess I was.

Jenna followed me around the room the whole time, crying and begging me to stay. She offered to leave instead, said she'd go stay with her sister, said she'd do anything to fix this. The irony of her offers just made me laugh.

"I wouldn't dream of separating you from your man," I told her. "You two seem so happy together. Maybe he'll let you move in with him.

You already know where he lives. " The look on her face when I said that was like I'd slapped her. Good.

Let her feel a fraction of the pain I was feeling. She collapsed onto our bed and started sobbing again. I just walked out—didn't even look back.

I've been in this cheap hotel for two days now, the kind of place that rents by the week, where the sheets smell like industrial bleach and you can hear every conversation through the paper-thin walls. I called in sick to work—the first time I've ever done that without actually being sick. My boss probably thinks I have COVID or something.

I don’t care—I can barely function right now. I’m writing this from the hotel room at 3:00 a. m.

because I need to tell someone what happened. I keep thinking about revenge. I know it’s petty; I know it won't fix anything.

But I need something—some way to make her feel even a fraction of what I’m feeling right now. Time might heal all wounds, but right now, revenge is the only painkiller I can think of. Update one: It's been a week since my last post, and I've done something that I need to get off my chest.

I wish. . .

I could be one of those cold-hearted people who can hurt others without feeling guilty, but I've got this annoying thing called a conscience that keeps nagging at me. Still, what I did to her, I think it's pretty fair payback for what she did to me. Let me tell you about Jenna's dream—not the fake dream of our happy marriage, her real dream, the one she's had since before I met her.

Jenna wants to be a writer, not just the copywriting she does for work, churning out product descriptions and marketing emails. No, she wants to be a real author, like her idol Colleen Hoover, writing romance novels, drama, all that emotional stuff that sells millions of copies. It's all she's ever talked about at parties; she'd tell anyone who would listen about her book ideas.

She had this whole plan: finish her novel, get an agent, become a bestseller, quit her day job. I used to love watching her eyes light up when she talked about it. Three years ago, she finally started writing her book.

I remember the day perfectly—she came home from her shopping trip with this expensive notebook she'd bought specially for outlining her story. She was so excited, like a kid on Christmas morning, and stupid me, I supported her completely. I bought her a new laptop just for writing, set up a whole office space in our spare room, and brought her coffee and snacks while she worked.

I read every chapter as she finished them, giving her feedback and encouragement. "You're going to be the next big thing," I'd tell her. "This is amazing, babe, keep going.

" And you know what? The book was actually good, really good. It was this complex story about family secrets and forbidden love, oh the irony, that kept you guessing until the end.

She wrote every day for three years, pouring her heart and soul into it. The manuscript was over 990,000 words—that's like 360 pages. She just needed to write the climax and ending, maybe another two or three chapters.

She was so close to finishing; her dream project would probably have been done in another month or two. I remember sitting in bed with her just two weeks ago, listening to her talk about how she was going to handle the big reveal at the end. She had it all planned out—every twist, every emotional moment.

She was so proud of what she'd created, and I was proud of her too. I actually couldn't wait to read the finished product. After a few days in that depressing hotel room, I texted Jenna that I wanted to come home and talk things over.

The second she got my message, she started bombarding my phone with replies: "Yes, baby, please come home! I miss you so much! We can fix this!

" All that stuff. I knew exactly what I was going to do, but I had to play it cool, had to make her think she had a chance at fixing things. When I walked through the door, her face lit up.

She'd cleaned the whole apartment, probably the first thing she'd done since the landlord wasn't busy bending her over our furniture. She'd even made my favorite dinner—lasagna from scratch, the same recipe her mom taught her when we first got married. The manipulation was almost impressive.

For the next few hours, I sat there and listened to her sob story—how sorry she was, how she'd never speak to the landlord again, how she loved me more than anything and couldn't live without me, how she'd do anything, anything to fix what she'd broken. I just nodded along, saying things like, "I need time," and "I'll think about it," classic lines that give hope without promising anything. I learned from the best.

Right when bedtime came around, she tried to get me to come to our bedroom, starting with the puppy dog eyes, then moving on to touching my arm, my chest—the same move she probably used on the landlord. I shut that down real quick, told her I needed space, that I'd sleep on the couch. She looked disappointed but tried to hide it.

"Whatever you need, baby," she said like she was some kind of understanding wife. She left her laptop on the coffee table, exactly where I knew she would. Jenna always works on her novel late at night, and she always leaves her computer there so she can grab it first thing in the morning.

Some habits never change, even after you destroy your marriage. I waited until I heard her bedroom door close, then waited another hour just to be sure she was asleep. The laptop password was the same as always—our anniversary date.

I found her manuscript folder easily enough; she had it saved in three places: the desktop, an external hard drive, and her cloud storage—always back up your work, right? That's what I told her when I set up her cloud storage account, another way I tried to support her dreams. I sat there for a full minute, cursor hovering over the delete button.

Three years of work, 990,000 words, hundreds of hours of writing, planning, dreaming—everything she'd worked for since we got married. My finger was shaking on the mouse pad; a small voice in my head was screaming at me to stop, telling me this was too far, that I'd regret it. Then I remembered what I saw on that couch.

The hesitation vanished. I deleted everything—the desktop copy, the backup, the cloud version. Then I emptied the trash.

Then, I used a file shredder program to make sure nothing could be recovered. Three years of work, gone in less than five minutes. Just to be thorough, I went into her email and deleted every copy she'd ever sent to herself or her beta readers.

Found a few chapters she'd shared with her writing group and deleted those. Too, by the time I was done, there wasn't a single word of her manuscript left anywhere; her dream, her future bestseller— all of it was as dead as our marriage. I've done some things I'm not proud of in my life, but watching someone's dreams disappear right in front of them?

That hits different. Don't get me wrong; every time I start feeling guilty, I just remember, and suddenly I feel a lot better about what I did. Still, having a conscience is a real pain in the ass sometimes.

The day after I deleted everything, Jenna was acting like nothing had happened. She made breakfast, worked on her copyrighting assignments — she didn't touch her laptop for creative writing that day, which was unusual for her. She always wrote at least a few hundred words of her novel, even on busy days, but I figured she was too focused on trying to fix our marriage to work on her book.

The second day was the same— all normal on the surface, like we were just a regular couple going through a rough patch. She did her regular work, answered client emails, edited some marketing copy— still didn't open her manuscript folder. I kept waiting for her to notice, kept watching her face for any sign that she discovered what I'd done.

Nothing— just more attempts at acting like the perfect wife. Then came day three. I was in the kitchen when I heard it: this little gasp from the living room, like someone had punched her in the stomach.

"No, no, no, no," she kept saying, getting louder each time. I walked in to find her staring at her laptop screen, face white as a sheet. She was clicking frantically through folders, checking her cloud storage, her email— everywhere she might have saved it.

"Babe," she said, voice shaking, "do you have any copies of my book? You know, from when you were reviewing chapters for me? " For a second, I actually felt bad.

I did have copies of most chapters stored in my email. Then I remembered how many nights I'd stayed late at work to pay for that laptop she wrote on, and the guilt disappeared. "No, sorry," I said, trying to sound concerned.

"Let me check my computer, though. " I made a show of looking through my files, even though I'd already deleted everything the night before. "Nothing here," I told her.

"Did you check your backups? " She was starting to pull at her hair— something she only does when she's really stressed. The last time I saw her do that was when her dad was in the hospital.

"It's gone," she whispered, "everything's gone. Three years of work— just gone. " Then she turned to me.

"Did you delete it? " The accusation in her voice almost made me laugh, like she had any right to be angry with me after what she did. I put on my best offended face.

"Are you serious? You think I’d do something that pathetic? That's more your style.

You're the one who knows how to hurt people you claim to love. " That last part felt good to say. She started crying then— not the fake tears from when I caught her cheating, but real ugly sobs, the kind that shake your whole body— just like the tears I'd been fighting back since I found her with the landlord.

Karma’s a [__], isn’t it? I stood there watching her fall apart. She lost three years of work; I lost six years of trust.

Fair trade, if you ask me. While Jenna was still having her breakdown over the manuscript, I decided it was time for the final act. I put on my best sudden realization face and told her I’d been kidding myself thinking we could work things out.

"This is too much," I said, watching her face crumble even more. "You destroyed everything we had. I can’t just pretend that didn’t happen.

" Perfect timing, really; her precious book was gone, and now her last hope of saving our marriage was disappearing too. The wail she let out probably could have been heard through the whole building— maybe even the landlord heard it from his apartment downstairs. Good.

She collapsed onto the floor, this broken heap of a person who’d lost everything in the span of a few minutes. The sounds coming out of her weren’t even crying anymore— more like the noise an animal makes when it’s mortally wounded. I stood there, packing my bags while she sobbed, throwing whatever I could grab into duffel bags and boxes— clothes, electronics, important documents; the wedding album stayed right where it was.

She could burn it for all I cared. Just before I walked out, I couldn’t resist twisting the knife one last time. "Sorry about your book," I said, trying to sound sincere, "but hey, it's all still in your head, right?

You can always start over. " The look she gave me— I think she knew right then that I deleted it. But what could she do?

Accuse me of deleting her manuscript after she'd [__] our landlord in our living room? I walked out of there feeling like I'd finally balanced the scales. Now I’m staying at this dingy extended stay motel while I look for a new place.

It’s not great— weird stains on the carpet, neighbors who fight at 3:00 a. m. , that kind of thing— but it’s better than staying in that apartment.

The lease is up in four months anyway. Let Jenna figure out how to pay for it. Maybe she can work out some special arrangement with the landlord; they seemed pretty cozy already.

I know she can’t afford the place on her own with her copyrighting job. Even with both our incomes, we were barely making rent each month, but that’s not my problem anymore. Maybe she can move in with her new man.

I'm sure his wife would love that. Or maybe she. .

. Can start an OnlyFans; she's clearly got no problem with people seeing her naked anyway. I had my lawyer serve her with divorce papers yesterday.

She can keep the apartment and all the furniture; it's all contaminated anyway, as far as I'm concerned. But I'm making sure I get compensated properly in other ways. Sure, I don't have concrete proof of her cheating—kind of hard to take pictures when you're in shock from finding your wife bent over your couch—but this isn't about proving infidelity; this is about making sure I come out of this with enough money to start over somewhere else.

The lawyer says we can probably get a decent settlement even without proof of the affair. Jenna is so desperate to keep this quiet, to maintain her good girl image, that she'll probably agree to whatever terms we put in front of her. Plus, I've got texts from her begging me to come back, admitting she made a mistake.

Not exactly a smoking gun, but enough to show she did something wrong. Between that and the threat of me telling everyone we know exactly what happened, I think she'll be pretty much motivated to settle quickly and generously. Sometimes the best revenge isn't just destroying someone's dreams; it's walking away and letting them live with what they've done.

Update: It's been about six months since my last update, and I figured I should let you all know how things turned out with Jenna, my now officially ex-wife—the one who thought screwing our landlord while I was at work was a good idea. Yeah, the divorce is finally done—signed, sealed, and delivered. Never thought I'd be divorced at 33, but here we are.

Also, people were mentioning why I didn't talk more about the landlord in my previous posts. The answer is simple: why should I? He wasn't the one who broke my trust and the person who I was married to.

He can jump off a cliff for all I care. Now, on to what happened in the update. The settlement actually worked out pretty well for me: no alimony payments, thank God.

The last thing I needed was to keep supporting her while she figures out her life. I got to keep our car, which was probably worth more than the furniture she kept. My lawyer really came through; turns out the threat of your reputation being ruined is a pretty good motivator during divorce negotiations.

The funny part came after the final hearing. We were standing outside the courthouse, and I couldn't help myself. I had to ask, "So, how's the book coming along?

" The look on her face—if looks could kill, I'd be 6 ft under. She just exploded right there on the courthouse steps. "You deleted it!

I know you deleted it, you bastard! " She was practically screaming at this point, mascara running down her face, just like the day I caught her cheating. She told me she'd tried starting over, tried rewriting it from memory, but it wasn't working.

"It's not the same," she kept saying. "Three years of work gone! I'll never get it back!

" Then she called me evil, said I was a monster for destroying her dream. That's when I laughed. Couldn't help it, really.

Guess that makes two of us, I told her. "You destroyed our marriage; I destroyed your book. Karma's funny like that.

" She tried to argue that what I did was worse somehow, but I shut that down quick. "Anything bad that happens to you from here on out is just the universe balancing the scales; nothing to do with me. " The best part?

Found out through mutual friends that she couldn't afford to keep the apartment after all. Guess copyrighting doesn't pay as well when you have to cover all the bills yourself. No idea where she's living now; don't really care either.

Maybe she moved in with the landlord; maybe she's back at her parents' house writing her sad little stories. Not my problem anymore. It's crazy how different things turned out from what I'd planned six months ago.

I thought Jenna and I would grow old together; thought we'd celebrate when her book got published, maybe start a family once we were more financially stable. I did everything right: supported her dreams, worked my ass off to provide for us, stayed faithful. But you can't control what other people do; you can't make someone stay loyal just because you are.

But you know what? I'm doing okay. Better than okay, actually.

My new place is smaller, but it's mine. Started going to the gym more, reconnected with some old friends, even went on a few dates. Nothing serious yet; trust issues are a [__] to get over, but I'm getting there.

They say living well is the best revenge, but I think destroying someone's dreams and then living well is even better. Some people might think what I did was too harsh, but those people have probably never walked in on their spouse cheating with someone they knew. They've never had their entire world destroyed in an afternoon.

Sometimes, you have to fight fire with fire. She took something irreplaceable from me, so I took something irreplaceable from her. Fair is fair.

I know I'm going to be fine. I've got a good job, and most importantly, I've got my self-respect. Can't say the same for Jenna.

Last I heard, she's still trying to rewrite that book. Good luck with that. Maybe she can write about how she [__] up her marriage and lost everything; at least that's a story she knows by heart.